The Edge Of Breakfast
I pause before I press play on today… to indulge in the invigorating fraîcheur of rosemary oil. I rub it between my palms, cup them over my nose and mouth then take deep inhales, each one longer than the last. I repeat the process until I feel somewhat alive. I lie to myself until the ritual is complete, until all remnants of thoughts beyond I am calm/I am whole/My body is not a commodity dissipate. Lingering untruths are exorcised in the form of liquid droplets: solidification prevention.
Oil fills the pipette almost instantly bursting out and dousing my dry hands and roots, its camphorous tingle a promise of growth not youth. The only thing connecting me (Chloë) and naïveté is the presence of a diphthong-killing diacritic. Surely, I can’t be naïve if I’m only one fifth dotty… although I am linguistically astute enough to realise that the word ‘naïve’ contains the exact same amount of dottiness! In any case, the slicked back hair under my beanie will take care of concerns about looking old, if only by replacing them with ugliness worries. No self-respecting elder blonde millennial would wear a burnt orange hat. It’s fine because if I do ever get that buzzcut, I’ll need to be prepared for this. I return to Earth, finish my Tick Tock rooibos and feed breakfast leftovers to my dog, Eli. I ponder the word for ‘crumpet crusts’, going back and forth in robust arguments and rebuttals. I skip straight to ‘suggestions for future research’ forgoing any real conclusion. I land somewhere in the murky intersection of food and philosophy: do crumpets have crusts?
I head out on an early walk, fully intending to return within the hour and answer my own question. I don’t scroll reels like your average distracted twenty-first century drone; I deepen my eleven lines by scouring multiple lexicons for appropriately ‘crusty’ content. On the homeward leg, Eli pulls me towards some farm fields, presumably for reprieve from the uphill gravel path. His tail wags with excitement or simply through habit and his wide brown eyes beg nunc aut nunquam [now or never]. After some non-verbal positing from both parties, I capitulate and we joyfully follow the public bridleway signs. I take a screen shot of the map and activate trusty Low Power Mode, not before an untimely brainwave hits: crumpets are distinctly northern. I quickly search through various Northumbrian and Scots lexicons to no avail, but I am imbued with renewed hope. Marika Hackman’s dulcet tones and raw, provocative lyrics embellish the rolling hills exquisitely; it’s quite the unexpected juxtaposition for an average Wednesday and I’m not yet ready for an a cappella chorus of mooing. I risk it and leave Tidal playing downloads. Music is always worth it. Plus, it’s midmorning in a remote, sleepy village, so I’ll be grand.
The next thing I know, I’m five fields, three loose dog poos and a thousand cow pats deep. I continue straight ahead ignoring my volte-face gut instinct. Screenshots don’t lie, empty stomachs do, so I blame hanger for this uneasy, queasy feeling. Seven songs’ worth of time passes and I’m in a seemingly endless woodland I didn’t know existed. We follow a mud path of tractor treads in Hanselian and Gretelian fashion but without snacks (much to my dog’s disappointment). I cling onto this sole sign of human or mechanical life before I’m forced to acknowledge reality: my phone has 1% battery and I’m well and truly Lost in Woolly Wood.
I slip down a bank into a shallow beck when my earphones emit a depressing disconnection sound. It’s over. I have been tarred and feathered but with mud and old man’s beard. I should count my blessings as the ‘traveller's joy’ buttercup with its peculiar sepals and wispy white seedheads is a relatively rare find in these parts. Instead, I feel like giving up and turning around. I scratch around in my pocket for a sugary distraction. Eli’s cold snout gets right in there beside my spindly hand and exits with a gravy bone treat stuck to my last clean tissue, perhaps a napkin of sorts. It really is stuck on there. It might, in fact, be a used one. I envision the feast scene from Hook and fill up on what I do have despite major olfactory overwhelm: fresh air. A pungent mélange of umami fungi, piney yew trees and (what I wish was a spliff but is) herbs Robert/stinky Bob takes over. I pull my gaiter up cursing my wine tasting-induced sensory acuity then channel my seemingly anosmic Lab retriever’s boundless energy. For a creature so nasally perturbed by a stick of non-toxic incense, this is slightly alarming. I sly a pretty innocuous biscuit treat into one of his coat pockets and a poop bag into the other. Within two seconds, his 300 million scent receptors have switched back on and he’s swallowed it whole… the biscuit, that is. On we go, our wet, furry backsides notwithstanding!
Next up: The Eliminator. We spryly manoeuvre an obstacle course comprising hundreds of felled trees on a brutally steep gradient. My heart pounds. I cling to the dog lead for resolve and momentum. My pace increases. I keep my gaze upwards. This is a purely mental game now. I’m two-thirds up. A mammatus cloud rendering of my father-in-law’s Dupuytren hands comes into view. I look down at my tense, gloved claw and stretch back my double-jointed fingers until they click. Note to self: explore themes of pleasurable pain for future short stories. I beam with joy when I feel the sun on my face through the canopy. Vitamin D heals all. I’m almost there now, just nature’s Travelator to go. This plasticky, clay-rich mudslide requires a four-limbed and aurally-displeasing approach. I do not yield. This is a valiant albeit highly-embarrassing effort, especially compared with Eli’s. He has circled me six times and possibly urinated on my boot. I wonder if crampons for mud exist.
Unbothered by a rusty ‘DANGER OF DEATH’ sign that itself resembles a fatal weapon, I follow my nose landing us on a glorious path whose gravel underfoot feels divine. Even Eli agrees, having had a thin wooden spike stuck in his paw three miles back. The bittersweet scent of petrol lures me eastbound to a busy single carriageway. I know where I am, just a ten-minute drive from home… but there is no pavement. We cross the busy road, cursing those who offensively speed, and follow the public footpath signs. There are signs of life here. I smile with my eyes at a fellow dogwalker speculating about his walk thus far. He is looking at me oddly. Maybe I was too friendly. Story of my life. No, it must be the lichen, or the mud. No, he’s looking at my face. I remove my gloves and feel my skin for dirt. It’s all good except for the profuse sweating and beanie hat stuck to my scalp. I swear it was almost frosty when I left the house a lifetime ago. I go to remove the hat but, wait, I have ridges in my forehead from the ribbing and my hair feels extremely greasy. The hat stays. Rosemary oil holds my head prisoner, my hat further imprinting its unsightly vertical lines between hairline and brow. It is part of me now. I smile and pull the front down as if I’m not on the verge of overheating myself into spontaneous combustion. The other dogwalker speeds up. I tilt my head down and snigger at my latest discovery: rosemary oil and sweat ward off men. So do wrinkles. So does aging. Win-win-win.
Now, home. I don’t leave for 22 hours. I spend two of them researching crumpets, pikelets, muffins, Scotch pancakes, griddle cakes, baps, buns, rolls, drop scones, pofferts and bara ceirch (Welsh griddle bread). No luck. The next time I pop to the coffee shop, I quiz the lady behind the counter about all things crusts and carbs on the menu. The old man next to me winks and pipes up before I can even order. I will soon regret predicting a mansplaining session or queue-jumping. He interrupts my eye roll:
‘Wouldn’t get the crumpets mind. Rime’s too thick. Scones are sensational, though. Made on site.’
There really is no rhyme or reason to life.
TL;DR: I went for an early dog walk intending on making it swift and being home within the hour. However, I got lost and my phone died. I used my nose, just like my dad always told me, and had a lovely time!